


Compromise

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: getyourwordsout, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compromise is a necessity for any healthy relationship. This time, it better come with peanuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's getyourwordsout bingo challenge, for this prompt:
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Severina2001/media/gywo%20bingo/06%20arena_zpscgsvv0kw.jpg.html)  
>    
> 
> 
> * * *

Compromise. 

It's the one thing Matt sort of forgot about when having a relationship. Probably that's because his longest relationship pre John McClane lasted about three weeks, and the biggest concession he had to make with Chad was agreeing to get ramen noodles instead of chow mein when they ordered from The Wok. 

Sometimes it works out great, like when John drove him to Maine for the weekend-long _Magic_ tournament. First, he had the amusement of watching John trying his damnedest not to mock the banquet room full of overly earnest nerds while simultaneously trying to show some kind of enthusiasm over flipping cards. And even when John got bored and spent his time wandering the halls of the Holiday Inn, chatting up the poor girl at the reception desk and then finally sitting in his car with the heater running while blasting Skynyrd Matt never felt all that bad because _compromise_.

Of course, payback is a bitch. Which is why he finds himself hustling up the stairs fifteen minutes before the start of a sporting event in which he holds zero interest. But there are benefits even to a night spent watching overgrown freaks chase a ball, and one of those is that he wisely let John take the lead up the stairs. It's a very nice view.

Also, there will probably be peanuts.

"So this is Madison Square Garden," he says, glancing around as he settles into his seat. "MSG. The Garden. The world's most famous arena."

"You done?"

"The mecca of basketball," Matt says in his best announcer's voice.

"Don't let the Celtics hear you say that."

"Okay," Matt agrees. "Are we playing the Celtics tonight?"

"If we were playin' Boston I wouldn't have been able to snag these tickets off Kowalski no matter how much she owed me," John says.

Matt nods as if that makes all the sense in the world, and makes a mental note to look for Knicks-Celtics tickets for John's birthday. And to mention on the card that he's supposed to bring Kowalski. _That_ ought to earn him an appreciative blow job from John _and_ something from Connie. He's hopeful for one of those chocolate bouquets, but even a fruit tray would be nice.

"These are pretty good seats. Got a good overview of the whole field."

"It's a court, kid."

Matt nods sagely. "Right, the _court_."

"And the good seats are down in front."

Matt sits up straighter, strains to see the folding chairs set up around the edge of the court waaaaay down below. "What, why? That close you wouldn't even be able to see past their goddamn legs. It's not like it's a concert and we have to be super close 'cause we're hoping Manson spits on us, you know?"

"I'm not even gonna pretend I understood that," John says. "And if you ever ask me to see this 'Manson' with you, the answer is No."

"Okay, but—"

John shrugs. "The way it is. Courtside costs an arm and a leg."

"I don't get it. It's not like we're here to see some amazing band," Matt mutters, still craning his neck to see the crowd milling at the edge of the hardwood. "It's not like Clarence is gonna start wailing and Springsteen's gonna… HOLY FUCK IS THAT SPRINGSTEEN?"

"Another reason why those are the premium seats," John answers dryly. "Celebrities."

"Shit," Matt says. He slumps back into his seat. "I didn't even know Springsteen liked basketball."

"I didn't even know you liked Springsteen," John answers.

"Look, just because the majority of your music collection stems from the dawn of time does not mean that there are not the occasional gems amongst the coal, Springsteen being one," Matt says primly. "Now if you could just equally admit that Marilyn Manson is an innovator in—"

"That the one that spits on people?" John interrupts. "Not gonna happen, kid."

"Fine," Matt says. And he makes another mental note – this one to have _Mechanical Animals_ playing at full volume while he's working on the Rourke account from home next week. Granted, John will probably only give it about thirty seconds from the time he walks in the door to the moment his thumb hits the power button – man, he really hates that he showed John how to control the volume on his computer speakers – but maybe that'll be enough time for him to register the sheer originality of Manson's art. 

"Here comes the team," John says. "Warm ups."

Sure enough, a bunch of guys about sixty five feet tall are spilling out onto the floor. Matt leans comfortably back in his seat. "What time's the first throw?"

John looks away from the court long enough to side-glance him. "You're just fucking with me now, aren't you?"

All right, maybe he knows a _little_ bit more about basketball than he's letting on, but it's way more fun to pull John's chain. Matt plasters on his best innocent expression. "What?"

John sighs. "The _tip off_ is in about fifteen minutes."

"Cool," Matt says. He digs around in his pocket, comes up with his phone and a pair of earbuds. "Got time to load up my podcast."

Thing is, John's quicker than all that remarkable bulk would have you believe. The phone is snapped out of his hand before he can do more than tap a thumb on the touchpad. "What the fuck is this?" John says. "You're not listening to a pod anything while the game's on."

"But. You!" Matt blusters. "Skynyrd!"

"I spent a good three four hours in that hall before I bailed," John says. "You can watch the whole fucking game. I'll just hang onto this until we leave."

"What if I need—"

"No."

"I could be expecting an important phone ca—"

"No."

He watches his phone disappear into the pocket of John's leather jacket – which might as well be the bottomless pit of hell right about now – and his flailing is only pissing off the really jacked-up guy in the seat in front of him, so Matt slumps back into his seat. Pouting seems to be his only recourse, except John is sitting with his elbows on his knees and watching Chandler practicing a lay-up so there doesn't seem to be any point.

Compromise sucks.

There better be peanuts.


End file.
